


something there that wasn't there before

by rathxritter



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, FitzSimmons Secret Santa, Mutual Pining, Non SHIELD AU, Stargazing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 12:07:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17243939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rathxritter/pseuds/rathxritter
Summary: Every story starts somewhere. It's late and Fitz is the last person at Jemma's housewarming party. The living room is a mess and so are they. One more drink?





	something there that wasn't there before

**Author's Note:**

  * For [besidemethewholedamntime](https://archiveofourown.org/users/besidemethewholedamntime/gifts).



> This story is about Fitz and Simmons stargazing but it's actually about something else entirely. Enjoy the ride.
> 
> Unbeta'd, all mistakes are my own.

 

"Do you like me?" Jemma asks, leaning against the door frame.

They're standing in the living room, surrounded by chaos. There's empty beer bottles on the floor, the edges of labels ruined and ripped away, and stacks of plates on plenty of surfaces that aren't the kitchen table. Leftovers dismissed on top of paper towels - pizza and crisps leaving a greasy print on the white material - and two glasses of Irn-Bru left, almost untouched, in a precarious position on the small table next to the sofa. The orange liquid is as bright and colourful as the decorations that hang on the Christmas tree in the corner, the flat surfaces reflecting the lights of the living room's lights.

For a moment their minds wonder back in time, to days that are long gone and half forgotten. Her first trip to Scotland, Fitz's excitement and insistence in telling her that she had to try the drink despite it looking like dish-washing liquid. Do they remember the same details, Jemma is tempted to ask him, or is the past as subjective as the present -  shaped by desires, objectives, history, mood. Surely some things are the same: the clear blue sky after the summer rain, sunshine mirrored in puddles making everything appear luminous and blurred, edges of reality coming apart and making it appear dreamlike. Excitement on both sides, the sudden and prompt realisation as their eyes finally met at the train station, that it was the beginning of something. Friends rather than mere acquaintances, everything had appeared clearer, sharper, more important. That summer they had felt untouchable, out of space and time as if nothing could reach them, they had risked everything.

And where's that bravery now?

Fitz's eyes linger on her for a moment longer than necessary, it's been like this the whole evening: he's talking to someone, but it's Jemma who fills his mind, shared nods and smiles, everyone else too busy having a good time to notice. _I couldn't take my eyes off you the whole night tonight_ , the words are on the tip of his tongue, ready to come out. It's an obviousness and he lacks the clarity of purpose to express it.

"I should help you with the tidy up," he says instead. It's an honest observation and the room really is a mess, though supposedly one could say the same thing about them - he's pretty sure that there's tomato sauce on Jemma's jeans, it's late, they don't know how to deal with each other. Some words are odd, feelings are fearsome and remain unspoken, that moment in the kitchen hangs between them, an elephant in the room.

"Do you like me, Fitz?" Jemma asks again, her annoyance fills her voice. Syllables sound sharp as she speaks them out, the sounds harsh defined by a lack of patience.

Looking at the evening now, with enough objectiveness, it becomes clear that there's a before and an after and this is neither. It can't be anything but an inbetween, this fragile state of things, no matter how different it is now from what was and what will be. They had exposed themselves too quickly, shown themselves vulnerable, and now the old, private, politeness has reestablished itself between them. It's slipping away - the closeness, the bravery, the awareness of feelings - through their fingers, out of reach, replaced by nothing but dread.

"It looks as if a bomb hit your living room. And I'm pretty sure that Gereon drunk some Irn-Bru from one of the glasses while you weren't watching." He pauses, looking at the dog sleeping next to the Christmas tree, curled up with his beloved plastic dinosaur next to him, and smiles. "He seemed to enjoy it, knew that the two of us had something in common."

"I'm pretty sure that Hunter's fed him some pizza. If anything happens, I'm going to drag his ass here and make him clean up the mess. Or pay for the vet's bill."

"Good luck with that."

 

* * *

 

"Hunter said I should stay and finish my drink," says Fitz interrupting the silence. He's holding a plate in his right hand and a black bin bag in his left; with mathematical precision he throws away some food before carefully placing the plate under an empty bowl.

"Before or after all the _Christ. Shit. I'm sorry, mate_?"

"Except that I had already finished my drink."

"You can always have another." Jemma gestures vaguely at the table and the half filled bottles that stand next to a pile of paper cups.

He remains silent even at the mention of Hunter and it's too tempting to give in and jump to conclusions: silence as an indication that he wants to be left alone rather than a indication of a lack of courage. The routine would be familiar - unspoken conjectures leading to them whispering, tiptoeing around each other and the matter they so carefully avoid bringing up, deferring and forgetting. It always escalates too quickly for them to keep up.

 

* * *

 

"I really should get going." It's the third time he's said it in twenty minutes and sounds even more like a lie than the first two. He's never going to go, not now, not when everything stands there unbalanced, there's too much at stake for there not being any consequences if he walks out the door now. "Wouldn't want to abuse your hospitality." Fitz adds as explanation.

"You're not. Never that." Jemma pauses. "At the speed you're going, I'm going to have a clean house by tomorrow morning.

They're playing the same game, but beneath the jokes and the lies, there's the deep desire for the night not to end. Time spent together is always treasured, but there's also possibilities to be explored and a desire to lean into the sweet uncertainty of parting paths - the night can end in many ways, each step and gaze and word shaping one future instead of another.

How's the evening going to end? Were it for Jemma, she'd ask him boldly to stay the night.

"Hilarious, but I'm afraid it won't come to that. It's getting rather late. Thanks for the lovely evening, it was quite - something."

 

* * *

 

"To be quite honest, I said I'd go."

"What?"

"After finishing my drink."

"What?"

"I had every intention to leave. Nice place you've gotten yourself, it suits you."

"It suits me? Fitz, it's a house like any other."

"It's very- you. It's very you."

"Fitz, are you drunk?"

No, he isn't. In fact he's never been more lucid in his life or almost. But how to explain that sitting there she looks more at home than she has in any other place she's lived before? He's just happy she's there to stay and not on the other side of the world, settling down that's not something he'd have thought her capable of doing - too restless, too eager to see the world and make a difference - but she's there and she looks great, content, happy with her decision. That's another thing he wasn't expecting.

"Who'd have thought, things ending up like this?" Jemma asks.

"Indeed."

Neither of them is sure what they're talking about. Neither of them is sure if it matters. They look at each other, tenderly and affectionately, with hesitance and indecision, studying each other carefully. The silence is differently, less burdensome and more serious, heavy with unspoken words it still allows them not too feel en garde and relax.

"You know what? I think I'm going to drink another glass of Irn-Bru."

"Good luck sleeping tonight." She jokes and they both start laughing. It bubbles up at the back of their throats and comes out loud and crystal clear, filling the room. One honest reaction, one security to rely on - the effortlessness of their relationship is still there, the teasing and the banter still come out natural; it's equally elating and reassuring. It's progress. It's a step forward.

"Who needs sleep, Simmons?"

"Not you, I suppose."

 

* * *

 

"Can I kiss you?"

The words lose themselves in the empty room.

 

* * *

 

 

Gereon's outside before they are. He runs into the small garden and back inside to get his plastic dinosaur long before Fitz and Jemma are wearing their coats. The third time he runs past them Jemma stretches out her hand so as to pet him - his fur soft and fresh under her palm.

It's a cold night, their breath condensates in small clouds, and the air smells like snow and pine. It's a strong, winter smell, that fills their nostrils - welcomed after having been inside. The sky is clear, studded with stars, the moon shining brightly over the deserted road, lonely clouds wander slowly and steadily. Somewhere a bell rings two, it's sound echoing through the air.

"I hate Sundays on my own," Jemma tells Fitz as she watches Gereon pee in one of the corners, next to the small and naked apple tree. He's illuminated by on of the street lamps, the muddy snow on the ground appearing yellow under the artificial light.

"You can always take a few hours off mine." His reply is sudden, a perfect queue to her own sentence. Words roll of his tongue with such an ease that it surprises them both, but there's a different inflection to it as if it's not entirely what he wants to say - a change in fluency, the first part of the sentence smoother than the other.

Of course, Jemma thinks, he's always hated being on his own. Somehow, unexpectedly, it feels like she's trying to find a justification.

 

* * *

 

 

Jemma looks up and raises a hand, tracing an invisible line from one star to the next. 

"When I was a child," she starts, changing the subject of conversation as quick as possible, in doubt, avoiding to make a fool of herself and see something where there's nothing. Something there that wasn't there before. "I had scoliosis. After the surgery, my father used to wheel my bed out and talk about the stars."

"That's a story you never told me."

"You've got to keep some for yourself otherwise we'd run out of conversation subjects. Save some for the good occasions, the special ones."

"And is it?" He paused, exhaling, his sharp breath cutting through the winter air. "A special occasion?"

"Why shouldn't it be?"

"Right."

 

* * *

 

Their hands are a couple of inches apart. It would be easy to stretch fingers out and lace them - wool resting on wool, her red and white gloves resting on his black ones. On, forwards, more. More! Like earlier. In the kitchen. Almost as reflex, Jemma moves her fingers to her lips - what would have happened had Hunter not interrupted them? Where would they be now instead of sitting outside under a starry sky?

It comes back in waves: her fingers on his cheeks, his stubble ticklish under her fingertips, and his arms around her waist pulling her closer and closer. Mouths half opened, breaths mixing, lips trembling in anticipation, feelings running wild. Strange to have a familiar face so close to their own, they could almost hear the ghosts of their former selves looking at them in surprise and amusement.

Hunter barging in with his _Christ. Shit. I'm sorry, mate._

 

* * *

 

"There's something beautiful about this quietness, it feels as if we're the only two people awake." _  
_

She looks at him, courage filling her heat. They can go back, she thinks, they can and will go back to the point of exponential change; they will go back to that moment and start again from there. "Fitz, listen-"

Her phone rings and she takes it out of her coat with one swift movement. Fitz's glance falls on the lit up screen and he quickly glances away just as Jemma swipes right to get the call and mouths _I've got to get this one._

He looks at her, studying her as she stands up and walks back inside - her figure a dark shadow against the light that comes from inside. That she's there still feels odd, that she's settled down even more so. It's a drastic change compared to the years she's spent travelling around the world from one place to another, their friendship reduced to weekends spent together and flights from one country to the other, queues in airports and waved goodbyes at bus stations or train stations.

It's great, it's new, it's different. In hindsight it looks as if they move on and on, tiptoeing around each other, feelings coming and going in waves, washing over them, mocking them as they let each other go over and over again not wanting to sacrifice life, hostages of their doubts and what if-s, of the infinite possibilities and other people's opinions. He always thought it would slip away from them until one day they would see each other and realize that all the lingering feelings (never admitted or addressed) weren't there anymore. The friendship there, always, but not necessarily the two of them together - nevertheless, he's sure that the other one would have cheered from the front line. To happiness and love and friendship, friendship, friendship.

Wouldn't they want to be anywhere else with anyone else? Whatever. They'd be ecstatic.

 

* * *

 

 

"What- what were you saying earlier before the interruption?" Which one, she wants to ask him. The one now or the one before?

"Nothing, of consequence."

It feels as if all these years they've been interrupted time after time by nothing of consequence, minutiae always getting in their way.

"You could have, should have-"

"Don't put this on-"

"I mean you've been at my parents' several times, could have guessed that my father would have used his interest to connect with me."

"Yeah, no-"

"I'm joking, Fitz."

 

* * *

 

They're standing now, Gereon lazily lying at their feet gives away no intention of going back inside and they're too caught up in the moment to care. For the first time in a lifetime it all feels right, Jemma  and Fitz standing next to each other, things happening and the possibility of a future together. They've joked about it plenty of times _oh good! you'll be there_ met with _of course!_

They're eyes meeting for the entire evening, shared smiles and acknowledging looks that for her, on one side, mean it's here, we're here, here, here. Together for the first time in years and there's a day after today and another one after that. She's lived her life, travelled the world, just as she always wanted, but it's time of tiredness and settling down and it feels natural instead of forced, it doesn't weight in her heart to give up opportunities. They've grown, inevitably, but now, now, now - lingering feelings and nagging thoughts that have never quite left them. They're not in the conjunctive anymore, it's all happening and it's less scary than they thought it would be.

She looks up at the sky. "We should go to the Glasgow planetarium," he says. "I'd love to take you"

"Do you, now?"

"I wouldn't have said it otherwise."

"I know, Fitz, I was just saying."

What are they going to call it though? It's easy and she wants to say let's go for dinner before. Or a drink. To - explore possibilities and variables and if either of them changes their mind in the midst they can call it a day They can call it a day and go back to what they know better than anything else - their friendship and all it carries, the gestures and the routines, that mutual agreement and they're way of doing. _It's like the two of you are physically linked._

"Can I-"

"Makes you feel vulnerable and exposed, doesn't it?" He interrupts her, carelessly. "Ever fear like becoming like your parents?"

It comes unexpectedly and takes her off guard, all these years he's never really said talked about that part of his past and maybe perhaps probably because it's easy to bring it up but much harder to swallow it down again. It's sheer vulnerability, exposure at its finest. "Mine had me to save their relationship, not much to be saved there. I used to wonder why my mother with all her brightness stayed. Bright albeit young. And I still don't get it."

"Mine married, and I quote them verbatim, for tax purposes."

He laughs, a smile on his lips - exposed teeth and wrinkled eyes.

"What?"

"You make it sound as if they were two strangers who just had a crazy idea one day upon waking up."

"Did something happened?"

"What do you mean?"

"Thinking about becoming like your parents at this ungodly hour?"

He shrugs.

 

* * *

 

"Could you see them?"

"What?"

"The stars."

"Half the time there was too much light pollution."

"You seemed happy."

"I was. I am.  I think." She pauses. "I think all the travelling did me good, I don't feel as restless anymore."

"You don't look like it either. It's strange, in a way, you being like this."

"Like this?"

"Not just- us being colleagues starting soon."

"Colleagues and friends. Almost."

"Almost."

 

* * *

 

"It takes some  guts, you know?"

"I know." And she does, really.

Their moment in the kitchen, what could and would have happened had Hunter not interrupted them, is like a Singularity - it's impossible to know now what's waiting for them on the other side. There's so much at risk for who's there to assure them that things will end nicely? And if there's so much indecision and fear wouldn't it be best to not take the risk and leap? Live for the mere potentialities rather than for real life?

 

* * *

 

 

"You know, my mom used to say that you should always make a wish while looking at the stars, because once in a while they come true."

"That sounds quite lovely. My dad used to tell me that every element comes from the stars. The iron in our blood for example, I loved the idea of being connected to the stars."

"In the end it's like the first -"

"Law of thermodynamics."

"That's the one."

"No energy in the universe is created and..."

"None is destroyed."

"None is destroyed. That means that every bit of energy inside us, every particle will go on to be a part of something else. Maybe live as a dragonfish, a microbe, maybe burn in a supernova ten billion years from now. And every part of us now was once a part of some other thing - a moon, a storm cloud, a mammoth."

"A monkey."

"A monkey. Thousands and thousands of other beautiful things that were just as terrified to die as we are. We give them new life. Good one, I hope. You, me, we're all just particles."

"You make it sound so glamorous," he tells her and laughs. "Quite poetic."

"Waste of talent, I know. What would you have done had you not gotten into engineering?"

"Something entirely different, I suppose? Languages, perhaps, I'd already have English and Hebrew."  He pauses. "I think that my mother would have been less- confused? if I had been interested in humanities rather than stem."

"If I had to choose between all things in the world I'd go an live in a cottage somewhere, an hour away from the nearest city."

"The commute to work would be a bit tricky."

"Who says I'd have to commute?"

"Thank god for that then."

"And of course, you'd be there." She nudges him with her elbow.

"Oh really?"

"Sure thing. We wouldn't want to be anywhere else, with anyone else."

 

* * *

 

 

 

"It always sounds like he's from the middle ages," he replies.

"Come, come. That's no way to speak, Leopold. You know what? You two should keep each other company more often - both straight out of the past."

"Is that an invitation to spend more time together?"

"Maybe so." She shrugs.

"Because I'd like that," he pauses before ultimately adding "very much so."

 

 


End file.
